It has been awhile since I sat down and dug into the back of my mind to pull out the past. So go grab a quick drink and let's go.
Now I know that these are not in any kind of order. I hate the computer and I totally do not know much about fixing my blog up to how I would like it arranged. I would like to some how organize my posts into different categories. Like Foster care, parents death and so on. I'm sure over time I will be able to figure this out, until then you must hang on and enjoy the ride. Oh.... by the way keep your hands in your lap at all times.
So, I am going to go back and touch on my early times in Foster care. My Social worker's name was Sheila. I loved her so much. She reminded me of my Mom. She was caring and loving. She always seemed interested in me. She would ask me about my dreams, what I did at school, what I did before my parents died. Just all kids of things. She made me feel important. And important is not how I felt at the time. I was in several foster homes during my duty as a foster child. I felt like it was my duty, my sentence actually. I was referred to by a number or my last name a lot. We were the "other" kids. I hated that feeling so much.
My first home placement was with K and T. They were a very strict Christian family. K stayed home and T worked and was also a preacher. We had a GIGANTIC white van with a ton of kids to fill it. The main thing I remember about being there is the rules. No radio or TV. The girls could not wear shorts or pants. No after school activities and one 15 minute phone call a week. Sentences, Lord they gave out sentences for passing gas. They would ground you too if you were older or the punishment was seen fit. They also did isolation. I have not told many about this because it was so very torturous for me. They only did this to me once because I freaked out so bad. They had refrigerator boxes that they had in the basement. Sometimes they brought them up to the children's room, but most of the time they left them in the basement so they could not hear the kid's cries. Kids would have to go inside as a punishment if the sentences didn't stop the behavior or if they were too young to write. I remember one time they had their "real family" over for Thanksgiving and 2 of the kids were inside the 2 boxes and then 1 was placed in her closet. They were not allowed dinner. I was always on my best behavior because I was in there once.